


Chase: Sequel to Mute

by Ladibard_Wordsmith28



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23416954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladibard_Wordsmith28/pseuds/Ladibard_Wordsmith28
Summary: Chase starts exactly where Mute ends. If those two had not dropped a word, now they will. Things change but scars remain. Words can hurt you beyond repair. But can two sworn enemies reconcile over shared moments of silence with just a handful of words? A dramione through and through.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 5
Kudos: 5





	1. The warmth of his palm

**Mute** was s a challenge for me to myself. Make the most wanted characters of Harry Potter fandom do anything everything with each other but without uttering a word. Can I do that? Let me see. If I am not making the lips move to talk. I better work extra hard on the other senses, of sight, of touch, of smell and of hearing.

Chase- is its exact sequel, the same rules apply, but I am allowing myself to drop a word or two here and there.

* * *

_**Disclaimer**_ : I own nothing, but my thoughts of AU and OC, the rest all belong to J K Rowling. My mind lives in the Harry Potter fanfiction world though my body is still thankfully anchored in the monotonous reality of existence. My themes, plotline, and storyline may, therefore, get indirectly influenced by many of the brilliant fanfiction writers on this site. And I humbly bow to such creative genius who give me much needed literary pleasures to see through the toils of mundane life. Lastly, I don't have a beta, so please be merciful. Reviews would encourage this introvert writer to peep out of her literary closet.

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**The Warmth of His Palm**

Hogwarts  
8th year

It was a silly inter-house party. They were throwing these at the end of each passing month. Simply to celebrate the fact that they were here. Alive. Full of Live. They could now make future plans, enjoy, grow to have families and a settled job, children, whatnot. She could hardly see past the smokescreen.

The resident bookworm. The brightest witch of the age. Her medallion of Merlin's first-class lay neglected inside in her dresser. That was her way of dealing with all these accolades. There was a time when she would pine to be noticed. She would write endless essays, read and read and read, to squeeze in as much as her brain to accommodate. Why? She was out to prove she belonged here. In this magical world. The muggle alternative had already been treating her as an unfit, who would spout streams of additional discourse simply to prove she was way better and the rest.

No, she never desired to raise above. She wanted to belong. She wanted to be surrounded. To be loved, held, cared for, nurtured and nourished. Here in this big castle, among those hundreds of students and her mentors, she felt alone. Deserted. And bereft. Apart from this constant need to be touched by him, she was otherwise lifeless, mechanical.

It was as if his fingers alone knew the sequence of buttons to push on her body, to make the blood course through its designated path, to let the nerves throb into action. Her brain was otherwise tuned to run the mill since the start of her education. But the rest of her that had died with the war, now rose from their daily slumber only very his hidden touches.

* * *

She had gone down to breakfast. Had sat among her housemates, only to tolerate the nonsensical chatter of the girls about boys, and the rowdy Quidditch stories shared over a hearty spread of breakfast among the boisterous Gryffindor boys. Only Neville had looked up from his herbology textbook and had nudged her with his elbow, "Moine! Are you fine? Slept at all?" Biting on her single toast, gulping it down with some pumpkin juice, she had mumbled back, plastering a cheeky smile, "Never better."

Neville had stared at her a little longer. Then shrugging his shoulder, he had gone back to his reading. She had envied him. she wanted to have this comfort from books once again. But her veins had tasted a million spices that adventure could generate. They had been screaming at her for allowing them to have some form of similar excitement. And his presence had shown them the promise of excitement.

She had spent hours lying awake, staring up at the canopy. Imagining him. His eyes were stormy grey. His nose was perfectly tipped, she wished that she could nibble on it someday. His ears there the very first one to turn a shade redder at the burst of emotions. He preferred to remain clean shaved. But she had noticed the ghost of a stubble, during the late nights, when few of the 8th years would remain in the common room, playing cheese, relax with books and periodicals, or even homework, or just chat about anything but the war. Together they preferred to heal.

He would talk in whispers with the returning Slytherins, sometimes share an opinion with a debating Ravenclaw. She had seen him smirk at the lighter conversations of the Hufflepuffs. The Gryffindors would show their abhorrence about him openly. Though the Headmistress had openly reprimanded every student for cornering him and bullying him. People still baited to get him alone. But he was a consummated snake, the one that could hide better than anyone could imagine.

She liked the way his shoulders hung. Like a new bow ready to release a life-threatening arrow. Like She had found out he was slender. Below those layers of cloth, she had felt his muscles flex at her soft brushes. His arms were long. Long enough to wind themselves around her and cage her within his cold heat. His heart would always beat along with hers. Right below her pressed down ear. Loud and clear thuds would give her reason to believe there were many reasons to love this new life.

But above all of these she loved his palm. Long, slender, pale, a chessboard of hardness and softness. They could squeeze out her life, and they to spread warmth over her cold withering away senses. His fingers were a sculptor's ultimate creation. They could draw out passion, swirl magic on their tapering tips, play the erotic dance with a tumbler filled with amber firewhiskey, twirl an exotic quill within their grip and write the letter "g" over her exposed skin. She had lost count of the numerous places he had managed to write that letter on her body. If he would allow it, she would offer him her bare self. A filling canvas for an artist like him to draw a single alphabet in as many strokes as she could desire in this lifetime.

She had never realized that she had left the Great hall, and had already started walking towards the dungeons. His thoughts just like him as so addictive. A hand had shot out of the dark corridors, and she had been pulled inside an alcove. He had her pinned to the wall. Her face was pressed down, he had her hip firmly gripped, and had been leaning over her body, touch everywhere possible. She knew it was him. mentally she had already ticked off the smells.

_Ripe green apples_

_Old dusty books_

_Polish of Broomsticks_

_Sweat and a distinct musk_

_Sugar quills_

_Stagnant ill in an old inkpot_

_Sandalwood aftershave_

_Stale firewhiskey_

She was reeling over the onslaught of these smells. Her lungs were heaving out of steady breath. She was about to lose the little control she had mustered to see her through the monotonous day…when he had added the last ingredient to that mix of sedative. His palm had slithered past her throat and his fingers had wound around it. She could feel his entire palm warm and sweaty over the expense of her bare skin. His wrist had pushed on from one side, and his fingers had flexed tight enough. She had no other option back to tilt back her head, to allow his better access.

She was slowing drowning in the haze of his consuming presence, when she had realized he had leaned forward, pressing his body deeper, pressing her further against the hard wall. She had felt his breath over her soft ear shell. He had lazily nuzzled right behind it. Then had caught her ear, in between his teeth, and had given in a soft pull. Just a subtle suck on the redden lobe had made him have his fill. He had next grazed her neck with his flicking tongue, leaving a single wet track of his existence on her skin, forcing goosebumps to appear as soon as his touch had traveled further down.

He had paused at the juncture of her neck and collar bone. She had then realized how easily, he had pulled off her heavy cloak, robe, and her uniform. Before she to remember when did that debacle actually happen, he had bit her, sure and definite. In reply, instead of a cry, she had gasped and then moaned. Her eyes had rolled back, and she could have fainted, if she had not squeezed her throat once and had just massaged it up and down, to ease her breathing. He had nipped over the now reddening wet patch and had pressed his tongue possessively to write the letter "G". long and sure stroke. She was glad, he had claimed yet another small patch of her being as his. Then over her sizzling and smarting skin, Draco Lucius Malfoy had growled the word, "Mine."

Shoving off her roughly against the wall, he had left in a swirl of black robes. She still had her eyes shut, her breath hitched her heart racing and her head pounding. In no time the dark corridor outside had echoed the fading way sounds of his regal boots.

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A/N: Please drop a review or two. in much need of positive vibes, India is still suffering under the harsh attacks of the virus.


	2. Chapter 2 The warmth of Her Palm

The regular disclaimer stays.

**Chapter 2**

**The Warmth of Her Palm**

He came back because the empty Manor reminded him of the worst part of his life. He came back because he wanted to atone his past sins. He was aware, it was his time to taste the bitter comebacks. The school, and its occupants will breathe down his neck. They will plot behind his back, they will shove, kick, and actually wait for some prophecy which will in golden words write his epitaph. He wanted to make it easy for the rest of the world. He wanted to die. He tried hard to kill himself. Digging his own wand at his throat, he tried to say the killing curse. Not once, but several of those lonely days, he had spent in his room at the manor.

Each time, he got kicked down the stairs, or locked in some old classroom of the castle, he had wished for death to come. Potter had to also go and screw up things! He couldn’t even check whether Snape was following him or not when he had barged in that bathroom and had cursed him with the horrid spell. Though the pain was anything he could compare with, if it had got Death closer, he would have hugged it dearly. Saint Potter had wrongly saved his neck from Azkaban. He would have loved to get the ultimate kiss from any one of those dementors. But he really could not be too angry with the man. He had killed that snake-faced monster and in return had saved his mother’s life. 

He had always expected her to lead those pranksters against him, just like she had organised the Dumbledore’s Army, just like she had spoken in favour of house-elf liberation or their rights! But never for once did she instigate those who were after his blood. 

Tonight he had tried to sneak out of the dorm, out of the castle, right beside the bank of the great lake. He had succeeded in casting the Locomotor Mortis curse on himself, he was about to lung forward into the dark water, but she had right behind him. He had given up struggling against her powerful spell. He could not really remember just how she had managed to treat Flinch and his cat. She had them both disillusioned. And she had dragged him through the entire length of the castle until she had his shoved inside a perfect’s bathroom. She had kept on pushing him, hitting him with her fist, slapping him with her hands. Finally, he had stumbled into the bath. And she had jumped in after him. Splashing himself with waves of water, making him cough relentlessly, holding his head underwater, time and again, making him feel the real value of breathing. He had spattered, gasped and coughed, until, he had shuddered. 

She had next clawed at his wet water-soaked clothes. Tearing the fastening of his robe. Hitting his chest till his ribs had started throbbing. Pulling at his ears, slapping his cheeks harder and harder still. But he had refused to look back at her. He had refused to retaliate. He had refused to shove her away. He had refused to look for the strength to fight to live once again. And she was yet to draw blood. Good thing, because every night he would wake up smelling hers. Every night he would wake up to her screams. And right behind his eyelids, he would still watch her spasm at the mercy of his lunatic aunt’s curse, watch her eyes staring at him, begging him to do something or do nothing at all. He wished he could ask her about that night, each time he would see her secluded in her secret abode in the library. Watching her from behind the shelves had been his favourite past time. Touching her or simply allowed to be around her was a luxury. But he had gone ahead and had broken the barrier of decency. He had trapped her, stalked her, and pinned her at the mercy of his desire. He desired to devour every atom that had her name written on them. He desired to merge with every single nucleus that constructed the fieriest witch he had the honour to lay his eyes on. 

Because he had discovered only when he shared her breath did he feel anew. Only when he had held her did he look forward to seeing the next day. Only when he had lazily written the letter ‘G’ on her palm, wrist, back, neck, temple, throat, collar bone, or on the soft curve of her belly, did he feel pure. He recalled those handfuls of times when he had the luck to taste her lips. He had tasted ambrosia, he had tasted life in its full glory, and for those moments, he had stopped wishing to embrace Death. Instead, he wished to tangle himself in her arms, dig his fingers in her wild hair, bury himself in her depths, hear her galloping heart by pressing his ear over her naked skin, and claim her again and again, and reclaim his entity, if at all some bit of it was still left behind. 

The whole bathroom was echoing with her assaults, and he was yet to make a sound. He could hear her sobbing before him, but his eyes wear downcast, over the rippling surface of the bathwater, he had marvelled at her grotesque reflection. Even her distorted image made his wish for penance. His cheek and ears had started burning, and her fists had connected with his face. TUmbling back, he had hit his back against the brim of the bath. The edge had dug into his lower back, but still, he did not yelp in pain. She was not giving up. She lung forward and had ripped open his soaked shirt. He had heard the several buttons tear off and fly, dropping into the water with several popping sounds. 

She had grabbed his hair with one hand pulling it hard enough to make him finally look at her. And then she had placed her burning palm on his chest, right above his heart. What he thought had given up beating, that started throbbing with her touch, what he thought had obeyed his command of never to pump blood into his vessels again, had roared back to life. What he thought had finally accepted the call of death, had turned back to embrace the flicker of life once again. Pulling his head down with another jerk of her hand, she had brutally kissed him. Gnawing biting, tearing and sucking like an aminal, she had forced him to rise to her luring bait. 

He had tasted his blood, and her lips, her mouth, her lingering peppermint toothpaste, her lip balm, her tears, her sweat, and her essence. He had both moaned under her ministration and had whimpered but he had not fought for the dominance, she had been luring him with. Tonight he would prefer to be enslaved. Tonight, he could do with a lot more of those raining punches, slaps and blows. He was about to end his life selfishly. Like a coward, under the cover of the new moon night. And not for once did he think of his mother, or her!

She had suddenly jerked his head aware, freely his bruised lips in the process. Staring into his smokey grey eyes, wide open, she had glared. Pulling his hair, till their root tingled, burned and throbbed, slapping her other palm over his red chest, again and again, she had finally dug her nails over his racing heart. Giving him yet another sheering kiss, she had growled against his aching lips, “MINE! ALWAYS REMEMBER, MINE!”

Pushing him with all the remaining force she still had within her petite body, Hermoine Jean Granger, wet from hair to toe, shuddering with waves of emotion, had waded back to the other end of the bath. Pulling herself out of it, she had finally collapsed on the cold stone floor, wailing her lungs out, she had laid down hugged her knees. She had been this close to losing herself tonight, she had been this close to dying again, she had been lucky truly lucky to have heard him creep out of the dorm. Bastard! Who was he to decide his fate! Draco Malfoy was hers, hers alone, and if Death wanted him so badly, let it come and kiss her feet, beg for his soul because she was sure of one thing- every drop of her blood and magic responded to him like the moon reflected the rays of the sun.


	3. Chapter 3 ensnared

Disclaimer: JKR's world is hers to keep, I play along with my children AU and OCs, and mostly babysit hers.

**Chapter 3**

**Ensnarled**

According to her mother's English dictionary, the simple word "watch" had several meanings.

verb (used without object)

to be alertly on the lookout, look attentively, or observe, as to see what comes, is done, or happens  
to look or wait attentively and expectantly (usually followed by for)  
to be careful or cautious:  
to keep awake, especially for a purpose; remain vigilant, as for protection or safekeeping  
to keep vigil, as for devotional purposes.  
to keep guard

verb (used with object)

to keep under attentive view or observation, as in order to see or learn something; view attentively or with interest:  
to contemplate or regard mentally:  
to look or wait attentively and expectantly for:  
to guard, tend, or oversee, especially for protection or safekeeping:

But she couldn't even cross over to the portion where that five-letter "watch" was defined as a noun, in clear sentences. With a frustrated cry, she had hurled the book at the nearest wall. It was a crime, to throw a book for the resident bookworm of Hogwarts! She had flicked her wand at the innocent victim, at its spine which had cracked in the middle, to be precise and had muttered "reparo".

Throwing herself on her single four-poster bed, she growled. He had been watching her ever since she had lost her mind, and had beaten him black and blue. Her wrists had ached and so had her heart. She had wished that the cold draft of the castle could punish her further. But he had simply waded through the bubbling water and gathered her in his arms. It was an odd position. She was lying prone right next to the pool and he was still standing in water, among the foam. His long arms snaked themselves around her. Half bent over her shivering body; he had allowed his bare chest to rest over her side.

She wanted to push him away, punish him once again for being so selfish, for being so cowardly. He on his part had begged for her forgiveness. Peppering her tear strained cheeks with soft kisses, crying opening in front of her. Against her cold skin and burning flesh he had whispered, "Sorry!". Too many times. _When he should have been sorry for bullying her, calling her MUDBLOOD, for mocking her intelligence, for teasing her, for...hell! For so many things._

His ministrations remained tender and soft. His fingers never came up to brush her wet hair aside. He simply went ahead, kissing his way over the wet, plastered hair. Making his lips write down his pleas on her neck, her ear lobes, her cheek, her throat. And when he had run out of his meagre ways to apologize, he just rested his face over her burning cheek and had broken down.

She felt his shudder, his wrecking efforts to breathe, and his arms tightening around her. Even then, she refused to comply, she refused to be considerate. He needed to know he had committed a crime. Yes, it was a criminal act of absolute defiance. The upstart! How dare he decided to throw away the life, she had fought so hard to save. She dealt with Ron's disgust and the childish act of bluntly ignoring her for standing up on behalf of the ferret. She had to fight tooth and nail with Harry, who had screwed his face in ways she couldn't even imagine was possible in the first place, gagged at her undebatable reasoning but had stood for the bully at Wizengamot defending him, literally dragging his neck away from Azkaban.

How dare he! How dare HE! She had shoved him away that very next second. Gathering herself together, and her dignity along with it, she had run away, her feet hitting the floor in soft thuds. She was done with him. He was still the spoilt brat, taking things for granted. She refused to look at him. She made certain about avoiding the Slytherin at all costs. The tension among them could cut through ice and diamond, yet she could feel his eyes on her every time and everywhere. In the Great Hall, in the library, in the 8th year common room, in class and in the corridors. He was everywhere. Quietly watching her. He never came close enough. From a distance he continued watching her, caressing her burning skin with his smoky eyes. She had caught him on many occasions but, never for once did he look away, did he speak or did he bat his eyelids! And just by staring, he had succeeded in breaking her walls. It was been weeks, how badly she wanted to smell his presence. How many nights she had tried to imagine or recall them:

_Ripe green apples_

_Old dusty books_

_Polish of Broomsticks_

_Sweat and a distinct musk_

_Sugar quills_

_Stagnant ink in an old inkpot_

_Sandalwood aftershave_

_Stale firewhiskey_

Stubborn as she always was, she had taken to collecting items that reminded her of him instead. A docile kitchen house-elf had given her a small sack of green apples. Terry Boot had lost his brand-new box of broomstick wax. Several of the other 8th years have been complaining of someone nicking their inkpots. Longbottom had uncharacteristically accused the boys of hiding away his sandalwood aftershave. Hannah Abbott and Pansy Parkinson had a hug catfight. They both had been strongly holding it against each other since the beginning of the term. Headmistress Minerva McGonagall had gone ballistic, "Seriously young ladies! You are fighting over your stolen sugar quills!"

At the dead of the night, from a secretly hidden box under Hermione's enormously expandable and extendable beads' bag, a bag of ripe green ripe apples, Boot's stolen broomstick polish, Longbottom's aftershave, a handful of inkpots with some leftover dried ink in each one of them, two bags of sugar quills would tumble out over her bed. One by one she would smell them. Sometimes even together, but they were never close to imitating his essence. Apart from watching her constantly, he had also been drinking. Most of the boys complained of his drunken feats. She thought if she could ever nick one of his empty firewhiskey bottles. And the chance had presented itself a few weeks later.

Several of the school rules were relaxed for the 8th years, even the Headmistress allowed him to practice Quidditch after noticing him roaming around through the first few months around the grounds like a lost puppy. When the school would head for indoors, she saw him grab his broomstick and disappear. She had followed him a few times. He would carry two things. A bottle of firewhiskey and his broomstick. He would empty nearly all of the amber liquid and then mount his broom. He usually spent about an hour flying around. Today, she was waiting for him below the stands. Like every other day, he had watched the moon rise, gulping down the liquid, he had walked away, mounting his broom he had flown away. Unlike the other days, today, His left behind firewhiskey bottle vanished the moment his back was turned.

She hadn't felt such a sense of euphoria even after fooling Umbridge or lighting Snape's robes. Giggling to herself she had dashed back to the castle. She had nearly reached her bedroom when someone grabbed her from behind and had pulled her into another room. The moment his palm muffled her cry she had started feeling inhibited. Pinning her with his long body over his closed door, threading his fingers through her wild hair, not even making an effort to light the scorns or even a candle, he growled against her outstretched throat. She thought of doing something about the quarter filled bottle still in her hands. As if reading her mind, he snatched that away, uncorking it with his teeth, he had gulped down rest. Throwing the empty bottle away, he had pulled at her hair, mercilessly attacking her parted lips. He tasted of... everything she wanted so badly for weeks now. He was brutal, hungry, impatient, aroused, unaffected about the way her scalp had started aching, how strained her neck was, how breathless she was growing by every passing minute. He made sure once he was done, she wouldn't go back stealing things that reminded her of him, she would actually stare back at him with her honey-dipped eyes, she would actually come to him, simply to be held for a while, simply to unburden her mind, and relax. Or for a repeat performance...or for something more.

Having had his fill of Hermione Jean Granger, Draco Lucius Malfoy, had possessively declared over the witches swollen lips, "Mine! Always! Yours! Forever!"


End file.
